


Feedback Loop

by hurricanine



Category: Lazer Team (2015)
Genre: First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 03:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5852107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricanine/pseuds/hurricanine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle suit bestows great power upon its wearer... but unfortunately for two members of the Lazer Team, it also comes with some unexpected side effects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feedback Loop

**Author's Note:**

> The events and characters depicted in this fanfiction are purely fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
> 
> This means you, Burnie and Michael.
> 
> May god have mercy on my soul.

It's funny, how it starts – not _haha_ funny, but _sick in the pit of your stomach_ funny. It's like tripping on the second to last step, or the utter wrongness of a missing limb (thanks for that, Woody), or...

No, that isn't quite it. It's... It's like that feeling in his gut after one too many night shifts in a racist, backwater hick town, sleeping in his patrol car and getting by on convenience store pizza and cheap beer because the ex-wife had Mindy for the weekend and he couldn't bring himself to go back to an empty home.

He ignored it for as long as he could; unfortunately, that means he doesn't actually know  _when_ it began. When they first put on the pieces of the suit? During their training – after they defeated the Worg? Who the hell even knows... All  _he_ knows is that he's tired of dealing with this shit.

He saved the world! Not on his own, maybe, but that should still give him certain perks, right? Perks that include not having to try to explain how he knows things he shouldn't, like precisely where Herman and Woody and Zach are in the base at any given time. Or like knowing the words to a song he's never heard, or when he catches himself humming a melody that is all at once achingly familiar... and entirely new. Or like asking his daughter if she wants to talk about the breakup, before she's even told her closest friends.

Or like how he knows, without even looking, that right this instant there's a tennis ball on the perfect trajectory towards his head.

' _Hagan_ .' The measured, gentle intonations of Woody's voice filters in through his thoughts. Everyone had hoped the pretentious accent would go away once they had saved the world, but no, it's here to stay. ' _You're distracted. I suggest_ -'

He twists around, feeling the projectile thud off his shield. Feels it, because he doesn't see it, because for a split-second he's watching it all from someone else's perspective. What the hell do they call it... an out of body experience?

It all snaps back into place so quickly that Hagan half thinks he imagined it all. He shakes his head, dropping his shield, and watches at the scientists scribble on their notepads. There are even a few impressed murmurs from the team, but then the whistle for lunch is blown and Herman and Zach are halfway across the field before he can open his mouth.

Woody is there, though. There's a knowing look in his eyes. It's unnerving, like just about everything else Woody has done since he first put on that helmet.

“You were in my head again,” Hagan says, grabbing a towel off the rack to wipe his face. “Did you... with the tennis ball? Not that I'm complaining, man, you saved me a hell of a bruise, but-”

“I didn't.” Woody tilts his head, a look in his eyes like he can see right through him. Hagan just hopes he doesn't have the x-ray module switched on again.

“Then... what was it, brainiac?”

The insult gets a reproachful look from Woody, but it's hardly one of his worst, and nowadays Woody is a hard one to ruffle. “The suit was never meant to be divided up. I don't think the Antareans ever accounted for that possibility in their programming.”

“Meaning...?” Hagan raises his eyebrows. His stomach gives a little gurgle as he smells whatever passes for food at the canteen. He deliberately ignores that the canteen is two floors above him and there's no way he could be smelling it right now.

“Simple. The pieces are designed to work together. They aren't sentient – they aren't aware that they aren't connected. But the suit is intended to adapt to the wearer's strengths and weaknesses, and the longer we train together and work as a team, the more the pieces begin to adapt. Hence how we were able to pull together and use the dark matter cannon.”

“So it's like your...” Hagan waves his hand. “Telepathy thing? There wouldn't be any need for that if one person was wearing the whole suit, right?”

“Precisely, Hagan.” _Christ, that voice, thank God the little creep doesn't call me Anthony_ \- “I heard that, Anthony.”

“Oh, shut the hell up, Woody.” He rolls his eyes “If that's true though, how come we don't all hear each other's thoughts?”

“Yes, I have been puzzling over that question myself.” Woody absently rubs the curve of his helmet, a strange imitation of someone rubbing their chin. “I suspect it is because the helmet naturally amplifies the power of my brain. But... I feel it is more than that. Tell me, do you notice these occurrences happening more with Herman... or with Zachary?”

His stomach drops a little. “... with Zach, yeah.”

“I thought as much.” There's an oddly satisfied gleam to Woody's eyes. “The helmet, the gloves, the boots... They are designed to work together, but each has a distinct ability. The gloves themselves, however... are designed to work in perfect tandem. The idea that they are separated now, well... it must be just as outlandish an idea as one person wearing the left boot, and another person wearing the right.”

“But... what does that even _mean_?”

For once, their resident idiot-turned-super-genius doesn't have an answer. Hagan watches as Woody tilts his head, a look both curious and apprehensive spreading across his face. “I guess we'll just have to wait and see.”

 

* * *

 

He doesn't have to wait long.

Now that Hagan is aware of it (and is he ever undeniably, _irrefutably_ aware of it), it becomes harder and harder to ignore the little things he was so steadfastly refusing to acknowledge before.

He finds himself humming along to the music playing in Zach's earbuds, an echo of the music just within the range of his hearing no matter how much distance he puts between himself and the kid. It wouldn't be nearly as bad, if Zach had actual _taste_ in music. And then there are the times he has to stop and wonder if he's hungry, or if he's only feeling phantom hunger pangs because he's mentally linked with a ravenous teenage boy.

It isn't all bad, though. Okay, it's mostly bad – it's mostly disconcerting and disturbing and he's never wanted to have his left hand chopped off more than he does now, only he's not quite certain that would put an end to it. But honestly, for all the little annoyances, slowly but surely, their training sessions become easier. As a team, they're improving, but as for himself and Zach... at times it's almost seamless.

He knows without being told when to provide cover when Zach is recharging the arm-cannon. He knows when to move and counter a projectile without seeing it coming. It's like having a sixth sense, and Hagan can already tell that on the battlefield, wherever the impending war might take them, they're going to be unstoppable.

And then another week passes, and something changes. Really, he should have expected it. Maybe he was hoping that this one little nuance would fall by the wayside... but the first wet dream served nicely as a giant flashing indicator of things to come.

Hagan wakes up panting and flushed, his blankets twisted around him in a mockery of a lover's embrace, and the remnants of his dreams fill him with shame even as they fade beneath the spill of morning light. From there it's an awkward hobble to the bathroom, to strip down and shower, shoving his dirty clothes into the laundry chute and praying that the government pays the cleaning staff well.

But he's never been more grateful for the team being given separate dormitories than an hour later when, _impossibly_ , he feels his dick twitch to life with renewed interest.

He hasn't felt this way since he was in high school, as if a particularly strong gust of wind would be enough to set him off; twenty years ago and he was jerking it in the locker room before practice, after practice, god it didn't even matter how many times he did it in a day, he was still so desperately horny.

But that stopped, like it was supposed to do, when he was young and stupid and married, with a baby in their too small apartment and too much distance between himself and his new wife. Oh, he was still as horny as any other red-blooded man, but there were bills to pay, and sleepless nights, and then there were... problems... and his ex-wife never let him live that down, even as she sat surrounded by pastel figurines.

That doesn't seem to be a problem now, which is both a blessing and a curse, as he huddles on his bunk and takes a hand to himself, teeth worrying at his lip as his mind goes so blissfully blank. He doesn't think about _why_ this is happening, only that it _is_ , and the sooner he takes care of the problem, the sooner he can get on with his day.

But It doesn't stop there. Why would it? Escalation is the only outcome, and as the day wears on, Hagan realizes that this whole telepathy thing is going to be one hell of a problem. The suits don't exactly leave anything up to the imagination, and twice during their training he has to feign a leg cramp and crouch behind his shield until he can talk down his persistent erection.

Jesus, for all those years he'd thought he'd just about give anything to feel that young, that _alive_ again... Now, he just wonders what the price is going to be.

 

* * *

 

The next time, he tries to resist it. When he's lying in bed that night, and his heart starts to race, his skin prickling with heat and his cock swelling lazily with blood, he clenches his hands into fists and stares in defiance at the ceiling.

He's a thirty-six year old man. He will _not_ jerk off like a goddamned hormone-drenched teenager!

It works, at first. Or maybe his brain just tricks his body into thinking that it's working. His erection starts to subside.

But then he feels the ghost of a touch, just an echo, the faintest slide of skin over his skin, the flat of a palm and the curl of fingers tugging his cock back to attention. Hagan shuts his eyes, breathing hard through his nose, but the darkness makes it worse, makes the sensations more vivid, and he swears he can feel the individual lines and cracks in the palm working him over, callouses worn into the skin in familiar patterns.

His mouth falls open and he groans. He presses his feet flat against the mattress to stop his hips from rising, but a thumb swipes over the tip of his cock and the whimper that escapes his throat is obscene. Faster, then, and his eyes are clenched shut, chasing the afterburn of an image. He doesn't want to see, but he _does_ , and it floods his stomach with shame, but makes his dick twitch nonetheless, precome spilling messily down the length.

When he finally takes himself in hand – his _own_ hand – Hagan sobs and snaps his hips up, fucking into his own fist as his mind teeters on oblivion. He matches the pace of the phantom touch, working together, falling perfectly into pace, and when he comes, it's harder than he's come in over a decade.

 

* * *

 

The kid takes to watching him. Hagan doesn't acknowledge it. And alright, so Zach's not so bad – he helped save the world, after all, and sometimes he actually has a good head on his shoulders, when he's not getting drunk and starting fights. Besides, it's easier to like the boy now that he's no longer dating Mindy. Hagan might not be a cop anymore, now that he's a Champion of Earth, but he's still a dad. He'll never not be a dad.

But Zach's alright. Kind of. The compliments come only grudgingly in his own mind, and he never voices them aloud – but the kid watches him through their training, through dinner in the mess hall, like he wants... his approval? Doubtful. Zach didn't have an ounce of respect for him from the start.

But he can see a lot of himself in the boy. If it wasn't for the whole alien invasion deal, their lives might have turned out quite similarly. Both were star players, but not good enough to make it at the college level. Zach would have burnt out just as quickly as he had... but Hagan knows what it's like to be at the top of his game, to feel the rush of winning, to know without a doubt that the crowd was cheering for him and him alone.

All of that's gone now, but the memories remain. It's a starting place, a foundation so desperately needed within their team.

At least, that's what he tells himself, when he comes knocking on Zach's door later that night, a speech rehearsed in his head that he forgets halfway through when the door opens and the glint of those whiskey-brown eyes stop him in his tracks.

“... whatever, come in.” Zach leaves the door open, and it takes Hagan a full ten seconds before he can slot his brain back into place.

“I didn't even say anything!”

“Ehh, you didn't need to. You were so guilty and antsy I could feel you coming from a mile away. Do they have medications for that? Like, seriously, dude.” Turning to face him, Zach arches an eyebrow, and Hagan shuts the door in a hurry.

“You... Wait, you can feel that stuff... too?”

“Uhh, yeah?” Zach gives him the most disparaging look, and Hagan has never needed a better excuse to want to punch a child. “Woody explained it to me. Or, I think he did. I wasn't really paying attention. You know how it is when he starts talking.”

“I... think I do.”

“I mean, don't get me wrong, it was pretty badass at first.” Zach shrugs, so loose and fluid, and he taps the fingers of his left hand over the sleek metal of his arm-cannon. “I think even that hot scientist chick was kinda impressed with our training stunts, y'know? And it was a nice change from the whole ADHD thing, kinda like your slow old brain balanced it out-”

“Hey! Watch your mouth, you little shit, or I'll show you slow old-”

“But I mean, the other shit? Like come _on_ , dude. How can a guy your age be _that_ horny?” The kid gives him another look, and Hagan feels so outraged that he can feel an echo of it coming back around through that little part of his brain that he's beginning to tentatively label 'Zach'.

“Me? _You_!”

“What? Come on.” Zach snorts. “I'm nineteen, not twelve.”

“It was _not_ me.” He frowns sternly, but it fails to have the desired effect; Zach laughs out loud, flashing him that toothy grin.  “Look, I didn't ask for this! The _last_ thing I wanted was to be stuck with some overly horny, attention deficit kid in my head, and...”

Something makes him pause. An itching in the back of his mind, a little stir of anger and... something else. Hagan tries to place it, but the hesitation costs him too much, and he completely misses it when Zach rushes forward in a perfectly executed tackle.

Their bodies collide, painful where they knock together; Zach is hard muscle, in the prime of his life and honed to perfection on the football field, but Hagan isn't quite as out of shape as he was before their training. They tumble on the bed and it's jarring, at first, because he feels it firsthand, and at the same time he feels it through Zach's mind. Zach recovers faster than he does, scrambling up and slinging a leg over Hagan's hips – at first he thinks it's to pin him down, but then Zach is tugging at the fly of his jeans, eyes dark and half wild as he mutters, “I wanna try...”

“What? No! Get off of me!” Hagan shoves at him, the gauntlet on his left hand catching Zach in the chest, but the kid knocks it aside and puts his own down on top of it. The arm-cannon is a lot heavier than it looks, and he feels a grudging respect for the boy.

“Dude, this is gonna feel awesome...” Zach is quick to shove a hand through the open fly of his jeans, and Hagan swears under his breath. He watches as Zach pumps himself in double time, his dick springing to life with the exuberance of youth.

Even if the sight alone had done nothing for him, the echoing feeling of Zach's hand makes his blood rush south. Hagan's head drops back against the bed, mortified until he feels Zach shiver on top of him, eyes glassy and bright.

“Shit, _yeah_... Aw, fuck, yeah, I can _feel_ that!” His hand abandons his cock and presses firmly against Hagan's crotch, right over his swelling erection, and they both groan. “Come on, come on, I wanna try...”

It's either the worst mistake of his life, or the best decision – or both – as Hagan shifts his hips and fumbles his pants open with one hand. And then, and  _then_ ... There are no words for it. Zach jerking off over him, Hagan's hand on his own dick, but the echoes of sensation so near and so complete, like he's in his own mind and in Zach's at the same time.

“Fuck...” He doesn't know which one of them speaks, because at that moment Zach shifts his weight onto his knees, rutting forward until their dicks come into contact, and he can feel Zach feeling _him_. It's too much, it's like a resonating frequency, looping over and feeding into itself, building stronger and stronger. Someone moans, someone whines, thrusts coming short and quick, hands groping and joining until they're stroking in tandem.

“God... fuck _yes_...” Hagan moans, low and shuddering, and Zach gives an answering groan. There's a splash of something hot and wet on his belly, but he's only dimly aware of it because _somebody_ is coming, or they both are, and he can feel every sensation routed back through Zach's brain and into his, spiraling over and over like it's never going to end, until he's blind with it, until they both are, and his last lucid thought is that at least he's going to die happy.

When it's over – minutes, hours,  _days_ later – he's lying flat on his back on Zach's bed, pressed down under the kid's solid weight, skin prickling with sweat and who knows what else. A tremor runs through him, an aftershock of pleasure. A moment later, he feels Zach shiver with the same feeling. Hagan closes his eyes again, and he knows he is well and truly  _screwed_ .


End file.
